You get so wise
talking to the plant
about the grilled cheese sandwich
you are making
in the middle of the night
all about guilt.
You think your thoughts
are mostly stolen
animal products too.
The moon in the window
is also a thief.
All light feels stolen,
if light is property
which seems a sacred idea
The moon in the night
like a yearbook in your mind
quietly assaults you.
You turn the sandwich
as a lover turns
a lover in a drawing
you can’t stop tasting
before you actually taste
yourself forbidding yourself.
Before you are the moon,
its shoddy accounting
and what it did with light
for billions of years
that it can’t explain
or won’t in this court
because it doesn’t even understand
it is a dark body
to other darkness.
Sometimes there is armor on the plate
The animal’s armor is there with it
It is nature’s wit
The colors emblazon on a shell
You go crazy with desire
Which protected the creature
Sometimes there are eyes looking up at you
Hunger is what you stare at
From defeat the aqueous eyes stare
You peel the skin back and then decide to eat it
You don’t see hairs in the skin which would be thorns
The skin is deliciously burnt
By desire and calculation
You lick your fingers
Thorns in the sensibility
Of a creature inside you assaying
The lightness of the things you do
The shame of devouring
What ticks off youth’s clock
But flavor is flavor
Flavor is the port of desire
Hunger lies on the plate of the mind
And it is a dead thing
Until it awakes like a snake on the plate
And it sidles between the flowers
That cover the dining table
Who are also dead
And many of the people dining with you
In fact, those on either side of you at the table
Are also conveniently dead
They bob as if on vessels and they are
Feeding you and feeding on you
Yet you won’t scream
Because you are so hungry
And this is the right place to sit
So much nourishment is speaking here
I am the camel-colored spackling sealing the bullet hole in this public white wall
on this busy street in the center of this town. This is Busytown with all the anthropomorphic people who are sometimes animals driving cars and sometimes
animals committing felonies while eating sandwiches or just after. Imagine. You put your finger there, stranger, into my filled tan hole. I think I am punk. I believe
I am punk rock. I am, after all, a bullet hole. But I am old.
You think this is a place where someone almost died, that the bullet could have gone through a human heart, which is really only thick red paper. You think, What a mercy. But you are wrong. The bullet did go through a human heart’s paper. Thick. Red. Wet. You forgot ropy. Heart that is a lantern of blood. And the bullet is still in here. It is still in me. I am the bullet hole that talks. I don’t want to give the bullet back. I’ve just gotten used to it, the feel of it in me like language, or metal type in an old wooden box in a sealed room. It is a form of possession. That’s all I will say. Velocity gave you to me, I say to the bullet in me. A lover will make such stupid statements of bald physics. It’s like the things people say during sex.
I am a public wall that has a desire to retain some dark and decent privacy. So I place one side of me in a place you cannot reach. The dark side of me is buried like an ancient rib deep in the shadows of the building. It is all so Biblical, to be a wall. Touch my outside all you want. Touch the outside of my wall like Southern people turning around a meteor in a church. As Russian people once turned
around Sputnik and touched it. I am rough-textured. You can touch me and stroke me and accuse me. You can drive your car into me and just die. You can shoot bullets into me. Nothing will change my anchoring into this darkness. Only if an earthquake occurs and I fall on you, will you know my inner side. But then how will you tell? See how cleverly I have designed this scenario?
I am the stale bread that you hold in the plastic bag in the middle of the night,
in the middle of your kitchen, in the middle of your life, as you calculate
its weight over and over before throwing it away. I am the cubic zirconia of dread.
Something comes down in your mind like a wall then. Something which allows you to throw me, living bread, away. How am I, bread, alive? That I will feed. That I will colonize a gut or be colonized by primordial forms of life. If left to stale, if left to the colonizing interests of air, the spores and tiny carriers of ladders of still
evolving things. Blue plushness will grow like velvet on my skin of bread. I will
suddenly have antlers of blue mold. Pale green overgrowth textured like the strangest moth will cover me like a blanket. Mold and its cities. You
want me, the bread, to stay in this plastic for eternity. There is less guilt if I can’t escape the plastic wall in which you have immured me, and which you call, ridiculously, a bag.
It’s so hard to close the fridge
in the middle of the night
and sentence all that food
to the dark side of the moon
to just cut the apron strings
in our kitchen
the middle of the night
eating a tomato
I am trying
the earth worked
I live in a place where the trains still come through.
Beyond the night, beyond daylight they go,
but carry few people anymore. We can be
virtually anywhere in virtuality in microseconds,
but the brute back of the world, its metals,
sugars and meats, cannot. We still need
iron, manganese, even a fund of chrome
for our bodies. These move in foods that move
the way they did centuries past, the way
those centuries moved. Heavy. Slow. Clank clank.
The future doesn’t brake for the past. That’s
the grandiose thought. But if you listen carefully,
behind the trees, behind in general, you’ll realize the past
doesn’t brake for the future either. Something’s always
coming on from each direction fast, and either force can kill you
if you’re not the sort to pay attention.